


my selfish prayers

by Arabwel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical disregard to non-sexual consent, Canonical Character Death, Chris Argent/Isaac Lahey implied, F/F, F/M, Good Peter Hale, If You Squint - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Peter Hale/Isaac Lahey implied, Rituals, implied minor harm to pregnant person, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You came back.”  Isaac isn’t sure which one of them is more surprised that he’s suddenly found his voice. “I want to know how.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	my selfish prayers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twisted_Slinky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/gifts).



> Happy Fall Harvest! I hope you enjoy the fic!
> 
> More detailed warnings can be found in the end notes

Everything is cold.

Ever since the nogitsune, everything has been so cold. Even though he hadn't seen the snow—he’s never seen snow, real or magical—he feels like he’s soaked to the skin with sleet, like there’s ice buried inside his bones and it just might crack them like it does concrete.

His tears feel alien on his cheeks, too hot, too wet—he feels like they should be frozen too, crack along his skin like the spiderwebs that have cracked along his heart and soul and not soak into Mr. Argent’s worn shirts.

Allison is gone.

Isaac knows Mr. Argent might say he can compartmentalize, but he also knows it’s not a real long term strategy. He remembers how his dad—how he’d seemed okay at first, after Mom and even after Cam. But eventually the cracks would come. And so would bruises.

It’s self preservation, Isaac tells himself when he stands in the dark eyeing up the nondescript yet upscale building. He knows he has choices—he is not obligated to, to hang onto Mr. Argent, to stay by his side as he prepares to leave Beacon Hills behind. He is not obligated to leave with him. (Not that he is sure Mr. Argent would take him, because why would he? Isaac is just a stupid wolf, a stupid boy who got Allison killed…)

He’s startled from his reverie by hot breath against the back of his neck, a sudden awareness of someone being so close they’re almost pressed to his skin, but not quite.

“You know, if my nephew wanted to spy on me, he could have at least told you to stand upwind.”

Peter’s voice is a low, amused purr and Isaac has to suppress a violent shiver. It’s not fear, it’s—something else, something he can’t quite put into words.

“Derek didn’t send me.” Isaac doesn’t sound anywhere near as confident as he’d like. “I came on my own.” He hasn’t even seen Derek since—

Peter makes a little tsking noise that seems to echo against the brick walls around them; he’s still standing too close, but Isaac can’t seem to bring himself to move away. For some reason he cannot comprehend, Peter feels warm. 

“That’s right, it is not Derek that I can smell on you.” Peter leans closer, so close his nose brushes against Isaac’s chilled skin when he takes a deep whiff, when he scents Isaac in a way Isaac hadn’t realized he’d craved ever since—

Before he can finish the thought, Peter’s hands are on him, twisting him around, and Isaac can’t breathe, all air pushed out of his lungs by the impact to the wall. Peter’s eyes flash an angry electric blue and Isaac can see a hint of fang as the older wolf presses him into the rough bricks.

“Is Christopher taking a page out of little Katie’s book, Isaac? Is he sending you out here to spy on me, on us, for some misguided parody of affection? Did he make you promise to find me when you begged for his cock?”

Isaac shivers at the idea. No, he can’t, that’s— “Not everyone is you, Peter,” he spits out, tasting a little bit of blood with the words. “Not everyone is gagging for Mr. Argent to fuck them.”

Peter recoils at his words, rears back and for a split second there something in his eyes, something dark and painful. But only for a second before his gaze becomes shuttered, angry, and Isaac has to fight not to curl into himself, to not to expect a blow.

“I should tear out your throat,” Peter hisses. “Send you back to him in pieces. Drop your lifeless, blood-soaked corpse at his feet and tell him to bury you with his daughter.”

Isaac can’t hold back a flinch at the mention of _daughter_ , of Allison. He thinks maybe this was a bad idea—there’s no way Peter would help him, not with Allison being Allison Argent, the enemy. Only... Peter hasn’t gloated, hasn’t mocked Scott for his loss, hasn’t rubbed it in Mr. Argent’s face, hasn’t rubbed it in anyone’s face.

Maybe there’s something showing in his expression; for all he’s perfected a look of sneering boredom—in part thanks to observing Peter—he’s never had a good poker face. Peter stills, and takes another step back and tilts his head thoughtfully, but in no way bares his throat.

“That’s why you’re skulking in the shadows like a second rate approximation of your first alpha.” Peter’s sneer at the word _alpha_ is audible. “The girl.”

Isaac swallows past the lump in his throat. “I want her back.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it? Not only is she dead, she confessed her love to the true alpha while dying in his arms. So very romantic, so very Shakespearean. Galling, isn’t it? To be the second-best, till the very end?”

Isaac knows he should be angry, but instead he just feels sick. Sick and cold, abandoned. He wants to be angry, wants Peter’s words to rouse something in him, but everything is numb. even the pain that he cannot dull, cannot deny. But he doesn't care if she comes back and goes straight to Scott, he just— He wants her here. Wants her alive. Wants to hear her laugh, see her smile, see her _breathe._

“You came back.” Isaac isn’t sure which one of them is more surprised that he’s suddenly found his voice. “I want to know how.”

***

“Lydia? One of your friends is here to see you.”

Lydia doesn’t lift her head from the pillow, doesn’t even want to think about who it is. But she doesn’t have the energy to tell them to go away either, her throat parched from tears.

Her mom has no more valium for her to take; her lethargy is borne entirely of grief. She can’t help it, can’t stop hearing it inside her head, day and night, feeling the life flee Allison’s body—can’t stop _tasting_ death on her tongue.

She can’t make out what her mother says next, hears a male voice murmuring assent. She’s pretty sure it’s not Stiles, but she’s still unwilling to look up, see who it is. It’s probably—

She can’t think of anyone who’d come see her. Not like this. She should _care_ about who it is, who is seeing her without her face on, with her hair undone and her cheeks stained with dried tears.

The bed tilts and then he’s reaching out for her, brushing his broad hand over her hair. There is something eerily familiar about the movement and for a moment she’s smelling wet earth and wolfsbane, can see the glint of wicked blue in the corner of her eye.

“Lydia?” It’s not Peter. It’s Isaac, of all people.

“Go away,” she mumbles, unwilling to look at him. Her voice sounds alien and hoarse even to her own ears and she knows she should drink something, the taste of dehydration in her mouth. “Please.”

“I can’t do that,” he says. “You need to get up.”

Lydia wants to whine— _I don’t wanna_ —but it seems more expedient to lift one heavy arm and try to shove him away.

Only, Isaac isn't deterred; instead he grabs her wrists, yanks hard enough to make Lydia yelp at the sudden pain as she’s unceremoniously manhandled to sit up.

“Let me go!”

“I don’t think so.” There’s a dangerous glint in Isaac's blue eyes. “I need you.”

In a split second, Lydia opens her mouth, pain lancing through the dried skin cracking at the corners as she tries to scream.

Isaac is faster, supernatural reflexes lending him the edge as he plunges a syringe into her flesh. A flood of cold fills her up, and everything starts to spin—

*** 

On one hand, the basement of the old house is perfect for stringing someone up for a bit of interrogation and persuasion, as his nephew well knows. On the other hand, Peter has no desire to harm a hair on the banshee’s pretty head unless he has no other choice.

“Really, Isaac, when I told you to bring her over I did expect you to ask her to accompany you and not just throw her over your shoulder like a caveman.” 

Isaac shrugs unrepentantly as he straightens up, Lydia’s limp body deposited unceremoniously on the couch. “It worked.”

Peter is quite proud. He knows something broke inside the boy a long time ago, but instead of turning into a sniveling wretch or a complete monster, Isaac balances on that knife edge where every emotion is turned up to eleven with beautiful delicacy. With it comes the need to please, to mold himself into what he thinks is needed by whoever is holding the reins, whoever can give him what he wants. And right now, that would be Peter. (He is very carefully pushing aside any thought of seeing any of himself in Isaac, of feeling any kinship with the pup. Any thought that this is anything more than a power play, a game.)

“Make sure she is comfortable.” Peter gestures towards the pillow and blanket that are more decorative than useful, but it wouldn’t do for Lydia to get a crick in her neck or get a chill—she would be intractable to start with, no need to add to her ill will. Not that he thought it would have any effect, but appearances needed to be maintained.

Since dear Allison had not had the forethought to prepare for her potential demise like Peter had, he would have to improvise. There’s no familial alpha to draw power from, no place as soaked in power as the house Peter was born and killed in. But the fact that she had been so very close, dare he say _intimate_ with Lydia? Well, that did open some very interesting possibilities. After all, there was a reason he’d bitten the banshee, mixing blood and saliva, rather than opt for other forms of swapping bodily fluids.

“Did you hit her, or drug her?” he asks, already knowing the answer from the acrid tang of chemicals on her skin, sticking to Isaac’s clothing. It is clear he’d filched the drugs from Deaton rather than from the hospital. Really, as a concerned citizen he should do something about the fact that the vet took better care of his mountain ash than he did of horse tranquilizers, but Deaton really did luck out on befriending the Sheriff. All sorts of things a druid could get away with.

Isaac startles a little. “Drugged. She should be out cold for another couple of hours.”

Peter nods. That would give him plenty of time to acquire the other crucial items the spell needs.

It is fortunate, he reflects as he pulls on his coat and slips out of the door, that Beacon Hills has many curious things in abundance. No, it will not be a problem for him to acquire the breath of a true moon-gifted…

Or the blood of the sire, unwillingly given. 

***

Isaac can’t tear his eyes away from Lydia’s prone form. Her eyes are closed and her breathing shallow, but her heartbeat is strong and steady.

He doesn't know when Peter will be back. He could get up, stretch his legs, snoop around, but Isaac knows Peter would know if he did it and he has no doubt the older wolf’s retaliation would be painful and humiliating.

 

As far as Isaac knows, no one else has been allowed in here. He certainly can’t smell anyone familiar—or anyone other than Peter. There’s a soft scent of sandalwood and lavender in the air and it's stronger in some spots, like Peter's a big hippie or something who keeps burning incense.

Nothing about the apartment is anything like Isaac had pictured. Not eggshell white and delicate modern artwork, no granite counters out of some fancy decorating magazine. But it makes sense now that he is in here, the color scheme of warm browns and deep blues, the hints of burnt orange. It reminds him of Erica, of how much she hated white, hated pastels and anything that brought back her memories of the hospitals.

There is a howling void inside him, a torn-apart space where _EricaAndBoyd_ dwell. Peter had shaken his head even before Isaac had asked. They lacked the intimate connection with a banshee, the right celestial alignment. And, Isaac thinks, wherever they are at least they are together.

Maybe bringing Allison back is the most selfish thing he’s ever done in his life, but Isaac doesn’t care. He just wants her back. He wants the black hole that weighs on him gone.

Lydia stirs and Isaac nearly jumps out of his skin. She makes a weak noise, eyes fluttering frantically as she tries to claw into wakefulness.

“It’s okay,” Isaac says quietly. “You’re safe.”

“You drugged me!” The vehemence and clarity in Lydia's voice is surprising as she struggles to sit up, the blanket falling off her shoulders to puddle around her waist. “Where am I? You can tell Derek I—“ Understanding dawns on her face as she takes in the room, takes in the bookshelves and the overall ambience. “Oh my god. Isaac, what has he done to you?”

Isaac doesn't shake his head, doesn't take his eyes off Lydia. “He hasn’t done anything _to_ me. He is doing something _for_ me. For us.”

Lydia frowns. “Whatever it is that he told you... You can't believe Peter, Isaac. He’s just using you. He knows you’re— That we all are—” And as Lydia’s burst of energy is fading, she starts to sway.

“I asked him,” Isaac says softly. “He didn’t offer. He knows how to bring her back, Lydia. He knows how to bring Allison back. Because of— Because you two _were._ ”

He watches her face crumble with understanding. That their closeness, their intimacy, the things no one in the boy’s locker room talked about lest they face the wrath—okay, more like puppy eyed disappointment—of their co-captain, or the cruelty that was Stiles even when everyone definitely thought about it.

“You weren’t just friends,” he says, sounding lame even to his own ears. He is doing everything, sacrificing everything to bring back someone who had love and affection to spare to more than one someone else.

But when Lydia glares at him, it feels a little like warmth on his skin.

***

The full moon is hanging low on the sky, bright and heavy. It’s still ascending, giving them more time to get all set up.

Really, it is a good thing Isaac knows the graveyard better than the back of his hand. No one will disturb them here, at this lone, desolate stretch of well-maintained graves, one of them still fresh like a bleeding wound amidst scars.

Peter takes great care to not to step on Victoria’s, even as he takes the time to spit on Kate’s.

Isaac is the one digging, the one who knows what he is doing even if he’s using a shovel and not a backhoe, the benefits of werewolf strength evident in his each move. Lydia just watches, perched on the box of tools that looks like it could tilt precariously any moment now. She’s not bound or gagged, but Peter is certain she is not helpless in any way, shape or form.

Lydia probably expects Allison to stab Peter—and Isaac for good measure—in the face the moment she opens her eyes.

Peter is holding on to the rest of the spell components. Deceptively simple things—the breath of a true alpha, one who was bitten, not born. Even now, Scott McCall sleeps too soundly for his own good, the mountain ash that protected him and his from the Oni wiped away. Simply holding a flask in front of him as he slept, catching his exhales in the gas valve was enough. Peter had left with Scott none the wiser, only feeling slightly disquieted by the odd desire he’d felt to wipe at the tear tracks on the boy’s cheeks with his thumb. The boy was no longer anyone’s beta, let alone his.

Water of the womb, now that had been a bit trickier, but he knew it would have better result than the bone of the mother. He did not feel particularly guilty about inducing labour in the woman he’d found; she’d been complaining loudly about being past her due date, and both she and the baby had strong hearts and no smell of illness. Really, she should be thanking him. Her water breaking nearly ruined his shoes.

The last was the hardest, and the most satisfying. Peter is going to cherish it for years to come, the knowledge that he had been the one to lay that final blow. Allison was going to wake up to a brand new world, one of Peter’s making. And wouldn’t that be beautiful, wouldn’t that be something that would make sure Peter gets what he wants? What he has always wanted.

Isaac has finally gotten to the coffin; Peter offers no help to the boy in bringing it up. They are werewolves, Isaac could, in a pinch, lift the backhoe sitting mournfully to the side. The weight of the coffin is on his soul, not on his shoulders.

“What now?” Isaac asks breathlessly, blue eyes wide in the darkness.

“Now, my young padawan, we arrange the body for Ms. Martin’s performance.”

He watches Isaac swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing under pale skin before the boy breaks the coffin open.

When Peter was brought up, he was barely anything but desiccated bones and skin. Alison's body is much newer, much less decayed, but the stench of rot in the air is clear even to humans. 

And speaking of humans…

Peter knows they will have company soon. He has to be quick.

It brings him no joy to reach into the coffin and manipulate the body within; to pry open the jaw so he can place the gas flask—not glass, metal—between her teeth. Next, comes the water of the womb, carefully placed just under her sternum. 

Last but not the least, he picks up the gallon jug, sloshing and still lukewarm to the touch. The blood of the sire pours easily, splashes over her body and coats the grey flesh with the crimson of life, with the blood of Argent soaking into the white satin of the coffin.

Lydia moves closer, kneels next to the coffin careless of how the dirt will cling to her skirt, to her skin. She doesn’t look at Allison, her eyes closed tight. “What do I do?”

He already told her, when he persuaded her that this could be done. That Peter was willing to help her because he owes her. He doesn’t like being in anyone’s debt, not for trifles and certainly not for something like this.

“Put your hands on her and do what you do best.” Peter’s voice is low, the satisfaction he is feeling clear in his tone.

Beside him, Isaac stiffens, almost tugs at Peter’s sleeve before he thinks better of it. “Company.”

“I know.” Peter smirks. He can’t hear the hunter—he would be disappointed if he did—but the true alpha and his little ragtag pack, they are far too easy to spot. “Let them come.”

Lydia screams.

***

They are too late. Lydia screams and the sheer _power_ in her voice halts him, nearly pushes him down on his knees.

Beside him, Scott is shaken but the true alpha pushes on, is the first one to reach the scene—

“Peter,” Chris grits out as he forces himself to move forward, aware that the wolf will hear him even over the piercing shriek of the banshee. “What have you done?”

The wolf smiles. “What I always do, Christopher. I take care of things you cannot.”

“You mean you murdered my father and—“ He cannot bring himself to say it, not even when he can see the air shimmer, not when his ears pop with the air pressure.

“I put down a _monster_ and I am giving you back your daughter. “ Peter’s eyes flash blue and Chris doesn’t have to be a werewolf to know it is the truth. For all his lies, for all his deceit… Peter is too fond of telling the truth when it is the most barbed blade of all.

A few more yards and Chris is there,close enough to reach through the heavy air, close enough that he won’t risk hitting one of the kids if Peter decides to move out of the way if he pulls his gun.

Lydia’s scream rings out to a deafening silence; the moon above is at its peak and Chris can feel it, can feel the thrum of everything coalescing and has the good sense to close his eyes before a flash of light hits the ground, red and silver.

He has to blink away spots and then he sees it, sees Allison sitting up in—in the coffin, clutched to Lydia’s breast as his daughter gasps for breath, gasps for _life._

Peter moves, too fast and too smooth, to support him before he falls down on his knees.

“You’re welcome, Argent.” Peter’s voice is quiet and none too smug.

Chris closes his eyes and lets the wolf guide him to his daughter. “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lydia is kidnapped and drugged but not otherwise harmed, canonical character death refers to Allison, Kate and Victoria. Gerard dies offscreen
> 
> With apologies to JKR for filching half her ritual


End file.
